


A Boy In My Arms

by lovelessinqueens



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: ALL THE GAY, Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing at Midnight, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Midnight, Sunrises, Sunsets, also some fluff?, homophobic father, sure idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessinqueens/pseuds/lovelessinqueens
Summary: I push myself up on an elbow, and smile down at Simon, pushing a curl off of his forehead and planting a kiss there.He stirs, eyes fluttering open, a soft smile forming on his face as well. “Morning, darling,” he says, and I swear I can feel my heart burst.“Morning,” I say, leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.“You got anything planned for today?” Simon asks, pulling away from me. He’s smirking at me, and I shake my head and laugh at him.That’s what he asked me everyday whilst we traveled. I would just smile at him, and reply, “You’ll see,” with a devilish smirk of my own.Now however, I just smile and say, “No, not today.”Simon cocks his head. “For once you don’t have an elaborate scheme plotted out? I’m surprised.”“Surprisingly enough, no, I don’t.”“What, you don’t want to come up with another grand plan?”“Not today, Snow. This one’s yours.”Simon thinks for a moment, before grinning at me. “I think I might have an idea.”





	1. Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mudblood428](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mudblood428/gifts).



> a huge thanks to @Soultoast who beta read! she also let me listen to [this rocking playlist](nofollow) while writing 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to the art! 

**Baz**

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up.

Snow’s wing is blocking my view of his nightstand, and the clock that sits atop of it. Even though I can’t see the display on the screen, I can tell by the lighting in the room that it’s much later than we’ve been letting ourselves lie in for. 

The sun streams in through the window, creeping in through the blinds, illuminating the room with a soft, cyan glow. I know that if Simon were up, he would complain about the hue-- he hated the caesious color I chose for our room, complaining about how cold and blue it was (“It’s grey! That’s hardly blue,” I had pointed out. He had simply rolled his eyes at me.) 

I’m on my back, covers strewn aside, barely covering my legs. Simon’s laying on top of me, arms thrown lazily around my waist, head resting on my chest. His wings are arched around us defensively, keeping us shadowed and in the dark. Even his tail has made itself comfortable, and I find it wrapped around one of my ankles.

I’ve gotten used to the Simon’s tail for the most part. I’m certainly much less discomfited by it now than I was five years ago when he first got it. It freaked me out back then, how it would always snake up my leg without warning. It seems to have a mind of its own, that tail. It’s all red and leathery, like his wings, with a black, pointy spade at the tip.

Sometimes I’m still baffled that Simon has a  _ tail. _ And wings. It’s absurd to think that he created them, that he wished for them, and they just burst from his back at his command. I don’t know how he did that. I knew he was powerful, but I didn’t think he was  _ that _ powerful. Powerful enough to grow a pair of fucking wings. 

Bunce and I have tried researching this on several occasions. (Without Simon, of course.) We’ve scoured through every book in both her library and mine, yet we’ve come up empty-handed. There aren’t any explanations or theories as to how or why it happened. But all we’ve got is Simon, who inexplicably grew wings (and a tail) and learned to fly.

I push myself up on one shoulder and gently reach out and pull Simon’s wing down, just enough so that I can catch a glimpse of the clock.

8:24.

I sigh contently and lay back down, my hands finding themselves in their original positions. One on Simon’s upper arm, and one tangled in his hair, fingers running through messy curls.

I take in the sights around me, and the familiarity of it all. The shelves on the wall, lined with mine and Simon’s book collection. The disarray of clothes in our wardrobe, shoes and shirts scattered everywhere. The trinkets on our dresser, little items we’ve collected throughout the years we don’t know where else to put. The few posters of mine hung around the room, particularly the Kishi Bashi one Simon got me for my birthday last year. (I was surprised when I got the package. He was never one for posters, and I reckon it was because he didn’t have any as a kid.) (To be fair, Simon didn’t have much as a kid. Just the necessities.)

We’ve done this for a while now. Sleep with one another. We didn’t use to as much when he and Bunce still shared a flat, but ever since Simon and I moved in together, it’s been fair game.

We made the move about two years ago. It got to a point where my time at Simon and Penelope’s shared flat had increased significantly, and it was as if I was living there with them. (I was starting to feel bad everytime I knocked on the door and barged inside. Though, I guess it’s hardly ‘barging inside’ if they said I was allowed in.) I’d lounge around with Simon all day, and stay the night a few times a week (that was as long as Simon and I didn’t have to do revision for any of our classes). 

Lucky for us, Bunce was out of the house more and more. Micah, her American boyfriend, started visiting regularly, and she made sure that every possible second with him didn’t go to waste.

I could tell Simon was getting lonely in his and Penelope’s empty flat, so I asked if he had any interest in moving in together.

“What?” he gaped at me when I first brought it up.

“I figured you might want to. With Bunce being gone a lot, I thought you might want some company.”

Simon’s eyes met mine, and a smile grew on his lips. “Some company would be nice.”

“Then let’s do it,” I said. “It’ll be like the good old days, at Watford.”

“What, the days where we pushed each other down the stairs and set chimeras loose? Nothing about those days were good, Baz.”

I didn’t tell him that he had a point. 

I let out a nervous breath. “I just meant that maybe it’d be like our last year. When we weren’t at each other’s throats, and actually got along.” I reach for his hand. “When we realised that we didn’t have to fight.” 

Simon sighed, and turned his head away from me. “I don’t know Baz, I…I’ll talk to Penelope, alright?”

I nodded, lifted his chin up, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Take your time, love.” 

Later that night, Penelope told Simon that she and Micah were going to move in together. Even though Simon and Penelope were sad to be moving away from each other, I can’t say that either of them regret it. 

This flat is much bigger than Simon and Bunce’s. There’s a proper dining room, not just stools crammed in the kitchen at the island. We have an actual sitting room as well, along with three bedrooms and two bathrooms.

And a balcony.

That’s Snow’s favourite part. 

He loves dragging me outside in the morning, to sit and drink a cuppa. Sometimes he’ll wake early enough to watch the sunrise, something he often used to do at Watford and in the care homes.

Though I’m always tired and cold, watching the sunrise with my boyfriend is one of my favourite things to do. There’s something serene about it. Something humbling, too. Knowing that something created all this-- the sky, the water, the trees, the sun, the stars-- and knowing that we get to experience it all, live in it all day after day.

I’ve come to love the balcony just as much as Simon does. And the rest of the flat. We’ve made it our own little home. Something that’s ours, and ours alone.

I can’t say it wasn’t terrifying. Moving in together. 

It was. 

Sure, Simon and I had lived together for eight years.

But not like this. Not with this new level of intimacy. 

We were both afraid, I think. Afraid that it would be weirder than it was at Watford. I don’t know why we thought that. Nothing could be weirder than our time living together at school.

Maybe we thought that living together whilst in love would ruin the connection we had. That somehow, we’d fall back into our old Watford bickering, and all hell would break loose.

I don’t know why we thought that. Living together has strengthened our relationship immensely. More than I ever could’ve dreamed of at school.

But, we were still scared. Scared of losing each other, or falling out of love, or Chomsky knows what else.

If it weren’t for Bunce, I don’t think we would’ve gone through with it. Renting this new flat. She gave us the push we needed. 

Simon and I talked and talked, and after many long conversations, we did it. We finally bit the bullet and just fucking did it. Signed the lease and paid our deposit. There was no going back. Which is good. We don’t want to go back.

Living together has been pure bliss.

Waking up every morning with Simon in my arms has been glorious; his hair pressed against my face, his tail wrapped around my leg, his arms around my waist. Spending nearly every second of every day with one another has more than lived up to how I dreamed a future with Simon Snow could be. What I imagined doesn’t even come close to what it feels like to hold Simon, to kiss him and be with him, and to be able to be in love with him. 

I like to think that Simon feels the same. 

No. 

I know that Simon feels the same. He’s said it himself on several occasions (usually in an attempt to comfort me). 

That this really is better than all the fighting we did at school.

And it really is.

It was torture at Watford, all those years of hate and the impending war. Of pretending that he meant nothing to me. Pretending that I was ready to take Simon down, when in reality it was him I expected to take me out. 

I didn’t know how to act at school. Father had always warned me of the Mage’s Heir, told me to keep an eye on him. That it was my duty. That I shouldn’t trust him, and that he was a threat, to me and everyone else in the World of Mages.

I didn’t know what to do when I first saw Simon Snow, when the butterflies erupted in my stomach at the sight of him. I especially didn’t know what to do after the Crucible had paired Simon and I together. There was no escaping him, no running away if it got to be too much. He was always there, with those moles, and that hair, and those ordinary, bewitching blue eyes.

The Crucible had sentenced me to a lifetime of misery, of yearning and agonizing over a boy who I knew would never love me back. I was young, and dumb, and stupid, and so helplessly in love. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to stop hurting.

So, I acted out. Did what my father told me to. Said every horrible thing that came to mind, insulted him relentlessly, made fun of who he was and where he came from. I tried so fucking hard to despise Simon while we were at Watford, and I just couldn’t.

It was impossible, when we were always near each other. We were so close, always crossing paths, that I thought I might burst into flame every time he touched me. He was the sun of my universe, and I was constantly crashing into him, always in his orbit. Always in his way.

And then the tide changed.

I was kidnapped by the numpties and upon my return, Simon told me my mother came back for me and helped me solve the murder mystery. And in the midst of all that, he kissed me and I kissed him and we learned that we wasted all those years fighting. When we could’ve been doing  _ this _ .

It doesn’t matter, though.

Things are much better now. Better than they were at Watford. Better than they were that last term, and when I graduated. We’re doing this now. What I’ve wanted to do for years, and years, and years. I’d rather have him now than never. Besides, I think Simon and I can agree that we’ve made up for lost time.

But, before things could get better, they had to get worse. 

And they did. 

After everything settled down in the aftermath of events at the White Chapel, I returned to school, to Watford, to finish out the year. Simon stayed at Penelope’s and lived with her and her family until the school year ended. Then, they moved out.

Simon’s told me a few times how bad he felt about staying with the Bunce’s. How he felt useless and incompetent. Said he wished he could do more for them since they had done so much for him. (Penelope and I have assured him countlessly that he was fine, that he was recovering and that there was no pressure to say or do anything) (He didn’t believe us.)

I think Simon wants to forget those long winter months he stayed with the Bunces. I don’t blame him, either. 

It was hell. 

Simon was depressed. 

He ate little, and rarely talked. Too many nights did Penelope call, informing me of Simon’s wellbeing (or rather, his lack of it). Though she tried to hide it, there was no disguising the concern that could be heard in her voice. Headmistress Bunce, on several occasions, allowed me to skive off school and miss my lessons, just so I could go and be with Simon. She knew he was struggling as well, and figured he could use a friend. Or, a boyfriend for that matter.

I needed him and he needed me, but we were miles apart. We were so deprived. Of touching, and of kissing. Of each other, and of everything we had done at my home in Hampshire.

I might be a right snob for education and schooling, but even I was happy to graduate. To go home, and see my family, and spend time with Simon. To be able to hold him again, and kiss him and give him the love I know he needs. 

Even after I had left Watford, things were horrible.

Simon was still depressed.

I think part of the reason why Bunce was so lenient with my visits to their flat was because she knew how hard that last term at Watford had been, for both me and Simon. 

We didn’t do much when I had first graduated. Mostly stayed at his and Penelope’s flat, watching movies and cuddling on the sofa. Bunce would order takeaway and the three of us would lounge around the kitchen. Penelope would sit at the table, Simon on the counter. I’d stand in front of him, and he’d rub circles on my back and rest his chin on my head. (I melted at his touch. I still do.) Bunce would get tired of us eventually, and retire to her room. Simon and I would resume our position on the sofa and finish the movie we had started earlier that day.

We made a routine of it. Watching movies and eating takeaway. It wasn’t much, but it’s what we needed. It was good.

Simon seemed to be getting better. He was smiling and laughing, and then out of nowhere, he got worse again.

He stopped talking. Stopped eating. Stopped being Simon.

He could always be found on the sofa, plates of scones and empty tea cups littered around him. He always had a blanket pulled tightly around him, almost as if he couldn’t ever get warm. (Merlin, if that doesn’t show how bad he got, I don’t know what will.) He slept soundly throughout the day and night, and the few hours he was awake, he just seemed utterly exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was matted, and his skin lost its golden glow.

Bunce reckons that it started during that last term of Watford, this depressive state. When I couldn’t be there for him at all, and he spent most of his time in his mind, thinking and worrying and Crowley knows what else.

That made us both feel like proper shite.

Penelope took it worse than I did. Said that she’s always been able to help Simon, and she just couldn’t. Cried to me about it a few times, actually. about the guilt that was eating at her. She was watching her best friend deteriorate, crumble and succumb to every negative thought he conjured in his mind. Of course she felt horrible about it all. 

It makes me think what would’ve happened if I didn’t finish school.

What if I didn’t finish my last year of Watford? What if Simon and I spent more time together? If I had stayed with him, at the Bunce’s? Would he have fallen into his depressive state still? Or would my presence help him some, keep him stabilized and grounded? 

Maybe.

Maybe he would’ve been okay. Maybe he would’ve smiled and shown life and been Simon.

It was Professor Bunce that had pointed out that either way Simon would have been depressed anyway.

“Trauma is trauma, and that’s that,” he told us. “There’s no getting around it, no matter how hard you try. Sure, there are ways to cope and lessen the symptoms, but there’s no erasing the memories or the facts.”

He set us straight, Professor Bunce did. Made us feel better about ourselves. Yeah, we still felt bad. We always would. There’s no changing that. Learning that this outcome was inevitable gave us some relief.

Things have since improved.

Simon started seeing a therapist, and she helped him work through a lot of emotional trauma. Without her, I don’t know if Simon would’ve gotten out of his depressive state. She got Simon out of the house, and to go on dates and outings with me. She got him to be Simon again, to be alive and to live. 

She convinced Simon to go into town with me one day, and that’s when it happened. When he finally started to show steady improvement. 

We spent a few hours in the village, Simon dragging me in every bakery he saw. In retaliation, I forced him into every bookshop on the street. Though, I don’t think he minded much. He ended up buying a few books himself. That pleased Bunce and me, to see Simon reading. He never got around to it at the care homes. Or at Watford. He was too busy saving the day.

Ever since then, we’ve been trying to travel more. 

Simon and I have actually just gotten back from travelling all around the UK. It’s been a request of his for some time now to leave England, and see what else Britain has to offer. 

“What?” I had said. It came out harsher than I meant it.

“I mean...only if you wanted to.” He was playing with his fingers, drumming them on the table anxiously. “It’s just...I haven’t ever travelled anywhere. Wanted to, but being in the homes...It didn’t happen at all.”

“Okay,” I said.

Simon’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really. It’ll be a grand tour of the UK.”

Turned it into an elaborate scheme, I did. Simon’s right-- I’m always plotting.

I spent about two weeks of planning, devoting several hours of the day to research for this elaborate getaway. Hotels were booked, train and ferry tickets were bought, and slots for touristy attractions were reserved. I was sure to make it an unforgettable trip.

And it was unforgettable.

We took a train up the UK and started in Edinburgh. Spent about a week there, before taking a ferry over to Northern Ireland, where we spent another week in Belfast. One more stomach-upsetting ferry ride later, we landed back Wales and stayed in Cardiff. After a highly successful week there, we crossed the border into England, and stopped at nearly every city we encountered. Bristol, Oxford, Bath, Birmingham, Cambridge, and finally, London.

To say it was a busy few weeks is an understatement. Nearly everyday, from the first sighting of the sun, to when it disappears behind the clouds, we were out exploring, holding hands and enjoying each other’s presence.

That’s what it had been about, right? Being with one another? Or had Simon simply just wanted to travel? To get away from England for a bit, and live in the moment, if only for a short while?

We’ve just gotten back from London. Our flat is right on the outskirts of the city, so the train ride wasn’t terribly long. Which was good. Simon was tired. I was tired. We just wanted to go home, somewhere familiar, and sleep.

As much as I like travelling, I absolutely despise having to stay in hotels. The beds are never comfortable, and do something funny to my back and neck. (Simon likes to tease me about it. Says it’s ‘cause I’m all posh and all that.) 

I push myself up on an elbow, and smile down at Simon, pushing a curl off of his forehead and planting a kiss there.

He stirs, eyes fluttering open, a soft smile forming on his face as well. “Morning, darling,” he says, and I swear I can feel my heart burst. 

“Morning,” I say, leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

“You got anything planned for today?” Simon asks, pulling away from me. He’s smirking at me, and I shake my head and laugh at him.

That’s what he asked me everyday whilst we traveled. I would just smile at him, and reply, “You’ll see,” with a devilish smirk of my own. 

Now however, I just smile and say, “No, not today.”

Simon cocks his head. “For once you don’t have an elaborate scheme plotted out? I’m surprised.”

“Surprisingly enough, no, I don’t.” 

“What, you don’t want to come up with another grand plan?” 

“Not today, Snow. This one’s yours.” 

Simon thinks for a moment, before grinning at me. “I think I might have an idea.” 


	2. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to the art! 

**Simon**

I’m sat in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, when Baz walks in.

He’s gotten dressed for the day, in some coloured button-up now, the posh twat. The sleeves are rolled up, just past his elbows, and I can’t help but stare. 

“Since when do you wear pink?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in something colourful.”

“You saw me in a green blazer nearly eight years in a row,” Baz reminds me, turning on the coffee machine. “Also, Snow, this isn’t pink. It’s salmon.” 

“Oh, right.”

He shakes his head at me, chuckling a bit, and grabs a mug from the cupboard. “What are we doing today?” he asks, as the Keurig spews out warm coffee.

“You’ll see,” I say, grinning at him and taking another sip of my tea. “Lots of stuff around town. I think you’ll like it.” 

“I know I will,” Baz says, planting a kiss on my cheek. 

“Good. I’m glad.”

I stand and Baz takes my place as I stride over to the stove. “Eggs? Toast?”

“Both,” he says, ad I get a pan out. “And I don’t suppose you could give me some sort of hint as to what we’ll be doing--”

His mobile cuts him off, loud ringing echoing around the house. He sighs and pulls it out, answering it and saying, “Hello?”

“Who is it?” I ask, cracking two eggs over the hot pan.

“Father,” he mouths.

I watch as Baz talks, looking for some kind of emotion or indication that this conversation is good. His poker face is incredibly good, so it’s hard to figure out how he feels. (I’m assuming, though, that this isn’t a good phone call. It’s usually not when Baz’s father calls. I swear they fight more than Baz and I did.) 

“What’s he on about?”

Baz shrugs (he got that from me), then whispers, “Simon, the eggs are burning.”

“Shit. Yeah.”

I turn the heat off and take the eggs out of the pan, laying them on two plates, along with a piece of toast, covered in a layer of butter and jam. (There’s extra butter on mine. It gets on my chin when I take a bite.)

Baz finishes his call as I’m grabbing a napkin.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, handing him a plate. 

“No,” he sighs. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel on our day in the city. Father demands my presence in Hampshire.”

“Is the magic still okay?” I ask.

The holes leftover from the Humdrum have slowly been filling back up with magic. Baz’s estate in Hampshire was one of the first to recover.

“It’s not about the magic, I don’t think. He said it was to discuss ‘urgent family matters.’ Whatever that means.”

“Oh.”

“I’d try to cancel,” he goes on, “but, I ignored him whilst we were travelling. Didn’t answer his calls. He’s right pissed about it.” 

I elbow Baz in the side. “You said everything was fine with your father! On holiday! You lied, you fucking wanker!”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t understand the term ‘holiday.’” Baz shakes his head. “But anyway, I’m expected around noon. I’ll try and leave as soon as possible, but, I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”

“What?”

“You’ll find something to do around here, yeah? I figured you wouldn’t want to go.”

“No, I’m coming.”

“Simon, I’m not going to drag you all the way to Hampshire to visit my family! No, that’s--”

I cut him off. “You’re not dragging me there. I want to go, okay?”

He’s quiet for a moment, tapping on the side of his coffee cup. “Nothing good ever happens at home. It’s always a disaster.”

“I know,” I say, and I cup his face in my hands. “But I’ll be there with you, yeah?”

He nods, pulling me closer, close enough so that our lips press together in a quick, chaste kiss. 

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

Baz was right. Nothing good ever happens at the House of fucking Pitch. We’ve been here for about an hour now, and nothing’s gone well.

Baz’s father whisked him away as soon as we arrived, and they’ve been shut in his office since then. Daphne offered me finger sandwiches to hold me over until lunch (of course they have fucking finger sandwiches), but I’m so nervous I didn’t think I’d be able to keep them down.

Since that, I’ve just been wandering around the Pitch Manor, exploring like I’ve wanted to ever since I first stepped foot inside. It’s nothing short of massive, and I’m afraid I’ll get lost. (I think I am lost, actually. All the halls look the same, but it’s too dark to distinguish a difference between them.) (They should make maps to hand out.)

I’m in a smaller corridor, now, with velvet walls and black trim. My footsteps echo throughout the passageway, and for a moment I worry I might get in trouble for sneaking up here. I may be on relatively good terms with Baz’s family, but we’re still not all that friendly. There’s years of history and disagreements between us-- I still think the Old Families would kill me if they had the chance. 

I knock on a door, the one I think is the entrance to Baz’s room. It’s tall and arched, with little gargoyles carved into the woodwork at its base.

The sound of footsteps is heard and soon the door cracks open, and 3 pairs of eyes peer at me from behind it. 

“This isn’t Baz’s room” I say, stupidly.

The door opens fully and the oldest girl, Mordelia, steps forward, shaking her head. She takes my hand and pulls me inside, shutting the door behind her. 

This room is almost identical to Baz’s: Red fabric walls, a fireplace, roaring with flame, and a bed, decorated in gargoyles. 

I don’t notice Mordelia standing behind me until I turn around and see her there. She’s holding out a book in her hands, the other two girls (twins, I think) seated on the sofa in front of the fire. 

“Read to us,” she says.

I take the book, flipping through the pages. “What? What is this?”

“Magickal stories. Baz used to read them to us. He’s not here right now, but you are!” She takes my hand once more and pulls me over to the settee, falling backwards on it. 

“Sit, and read!” The other two girls hum in agreement. 

I do as they say, sitting in the middle of the sofa and opening up the book to the table of contents. 

“Which one d’you want to read?”

“That one!” one of the twins says, pointing.

I flip to that page, leaning against the back of the sofa. “ _ The Evil Sorceress and the Gallant Warlock _ ,” I read.

 

_ Once upon a time, there was a sorceress who worked for the king and queen. The sorceress had been nothing but loyal to her overlords, so it was shocking when they banished her from the kingdom. She was hurt and angered, and took to the mountains that looked down upon the city. From that day forward, the sorceress had a change of heart and vowed revenge upon her old masters. That is until a handsome warlock came knocking on her stone doors, demanding to be let in. _

 

“Do voices for the characters!” Mordelia says. “That’s what Baz does.”

“Okay, sure.”

I clear my throat and keep going.

 

_ “Let me in!” demanded the warlock, pounding on the door with a fist. _

_ “No!” cried the sorceress from inside. “You’ll hurt me!” _

_ “How do you know?” the warlock asked her.  _

_ “Because the king and queen sent you, and they’re set on having me killed.” _

_ “I won’t kill you, I promise,” said the warlock. “I’ll let you take my wand, or chain me up. Whatever you want. Just, please. Let me in.” _

_ The sorceress hesitated for a moment, before unlocking the door and letting the warlock inside. _

_ “Your wand, please,” she said, her eyes trained on the ground.  _

_ The warlock obliged, handing his wand over to the sorceress without protesting. _

 

The door to Mordelia’s door swings open, and the three of us jump in our seats.

“Baz!” I say, relieved, though my heart’s still racing in my chest. 

“Snow, Mordelia. Iris and Uma. What are you lot doing up here?”

“Reading!” one of the twins-- Uma, I think-- pipes up. 

“What are you reading?” he asks, strolling inside and sitting on the floor, his back pressed against my legs.

“ _ The Evil Sorceress and the Gallant Warlock _ ,” the other twin, Iris, says. 

“That was always my favourite story. Mother would read it to me all the time.” A small smile forms on his lips as he remembers the memory. 

“Well, go on then, Simon,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Carry on.”

I reach down with my hand, laying it on his shoulder. He grabs it and holds it tight, as I keep reading to him and his sisters.

We finish the story just before lunch. 

The sorceress and the warlock end up befriending one another and moving away from their home kingdom to a new one, where the monarchy ceases to exist. 

Daphne comes upstairs to fetch us, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see her smiling at the sight of us-- Baz’s sisters, snuggled close to my sides, and Baz himself, leaning against my legs, my hand running through his hair.

“We best get down to lunch before Father gets mad,” Baz says.

His sisters groan and protest, but he silences them and ushers them out the door, letting out a breath as soon as they’re gone.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, placing a hand on the small of his back. He softens at my touch, and I can feel the release of tension as I rub circles against his skin.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Drop it, Snow. Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I wasn’t sure, with your father and--”

“I’m fine, Simon,” he says, harsher this time. His tone still bites, even after all these years. I’m used to it, though. I now what it means now. If he wants to hide behind his walls, then I’ll let him. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying.

“Okay,” I say. I press a quick kiss to his forehead and then we walk down to lunch, hand-in-hand.

 

***

 

Daphne smiles at us as we walk in and take our seats.

Food is already laid on the table, and everyone’s loading it onto their plates. A platter of sandwiches, with crisps and fruit. I didn’t think Baz’s family was casual enough to eat crisps.

I catch Baz and his father glaring daggers at each other from across the table. I kick his shin and point at his sandwich. He rolls his eyes at me, and takes a bite.

We make small talk for most of the meal. There’s noticeable tension, but no one comments on it. Just ignore it the best we can.

“Oh, Basil,” Daphne says. “I left a folder of sheet music in your room if you’d like to take a look at it. Maybe you could use some of it in lessons?”

“Thank you,” Baz says with a curt nod.

“Still teaching lessons, are you?” Baz’s father snarls.

I see Baz tensing, and I rest a hand on his knee. “Yes, actually. I quite enjoy it.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you enjoy it or not,” he says through gritted teeth. What matters is how much it pays. Teaching foolish violin lessons isn’t a sufficient career, especially not for the heir of the House of Pitch.”

“Nothing I do is good enough, is it?” Baz asks, clenching his fists. “ _ I’m _ not good enough. With my queerness and my vampirism, I  _ can’t _ be good enough!”

Baz is fuming at this point. Everyone is silent. 

“She would’ve kicked you out.”

“Baz,” I whisper. “Who--”

He quiets me, and directs his attention back to his father.

“Well, she doesn’t have to. And you don’t have to for her because I’m leaving. All my life I’ve had to hide. And I’m done with all of that. I’m done hiding. I’m tired of pretending that I’m something I’m not.”

I’m speechless.

I knew things were bad with Baz’s father, but this?

I wasn’t expecting this. 

“Come on, Snow,” Baz says, dragging me up from my seat, and pulling me out of the dining room. Daphne and Baz’s siblings all follow us as we make our way towards the entrance.

I’m already out the front door when Mordelia stops Baz, tugging on his hand. He kneels in front of her, and she and her siblings all pile on top of Baz, in one big messy hug. Baz sighs, holding them tight, then stands and presses a kiss to Daphne’s cheek. I hear her whisper something to Baz, though I can’t make out the words exactly.

Then, Baz’s hand is back in mine and he’s taking me to the car.

“Baz, what the fuck was that?” I ask, slamming the passenger door shut. 

He ignores me for a moment, shifting the car into gear and pressing his foot on the accelerator. “Father and I had a slight disagreement.”

“Slight? That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”

He’s silent, his face stone, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. 

I keep talking, only because I know he won’t. “Baz, you walked out on your family! And besides, you didn’t even eat your lunch!”

“Only you would have the nerve to be thinking about lunch when there are more pressing issues on the line.”

“What ‘pressing issues’ are there? Why did we just leave? Baz, what’s wrong?”

He’s quiet for another minute before saying, “My grandmother passed. Just last weekend.”

“Baz, I’m sorry, that’s--”

“Don’t pity me,” he says, cutting me off. “We never got along. In fact, that’s part of what my father was saying. ‘She doesn’t want you at the funeral, Basilton. You know why.’” 

I lay my hand on Baz’s, the one that’s on the gear stick. 

“Simon, I know you grew up without family,” he says, tentatively. “And I know family is supposed to be important, but, how can it be? When they treat me like that?”

“I’m sorry, love,” I say, rubbing circles on the back of Baz’s hand.

The rest of the ride home is silent.

 

***

 

We’re home now, and we both feel like utter shit.

We immediately took to the sofa with books, sitting at opposite ends, our feet meeting in the middle. My legs are bouncing up and down, and I sigh, trying to concentrate on my novel. 

I can’t focus on it. The book. My eyes are getting tired, the words are starting to blur together, and I have to re-read the bits I don’t understand. Takes me ages to get through a chapter. And even then, I still don’t really know what’s going on. The book’s written in an older style, and mostly confuses me. 

I sigh (again, louder this time), and look over at Baz, who turns the page.

I call out to him. “Baz?” 

His eyes shoot up from his book. “Yes, Snow?”

“Read to me.”

“What?”

“Read to me. You’re still stressed, and I know reading helps.”

He thinks about it for a moment before saying, “Alright.” 

I grin at him and jump up from the settee, sitting down on the floor and leaning back against it. He looks at me, confused, shaking his head and smiling, but stands as well and sits down on the floor next to me.

I hand him my book. He takes it, and gives me a funny look. “ _ Pride and Prejudice? _ I didn’t think you read classics.”

“Don’t act like you’re complaining,” I tell him. “You’ve been wanting me to read this for ages now.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m just...surprised.”

I tap insistently on the cover. “Just read, you tosser.” 

“Where did you leave off?” he asks, opening the book and flicking through it. 

“Here,” I say, finding the page for him.

“Only on chapter twenty? Haven’t you been at this book for weeks?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking down at my feet and picking at the rug. “Can’t really concentrate when I read it.”

“That’s quite alright,” he assures me. “It’s much easier to understand when it’s read aloud.”

“Go ahead,” I say, and he does.

It’s quite interesting, actually. More so than I thought it would be.

Baz is right. It’s loads easier to understand when hearing it, rather than reading it. 

It’s about this couple, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, except Darcy is kind of a dick and Elizabeth hates him for it. Eventually though, they both get over themselves and fall in love. 

“It’s like an enemies-to-lovers story,” I point out to Baz. 

“We are too, you know.”

“What?”

“Enemies-to-lovers. We hated each other, and now we don’t. I was supposed to kill you, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Baz says, and he goes back to reading. (I interrupt him several times throughout the book, actually. Usually to chime in with my opinions.)

We get through most of it before break for dinner. Baz orders takeaway and we eat in the kitchen, as music plays softly in the background.

“I haven’t had this in a while,” I say to him, wiping my face with a napkin. “We really should get Byron Burger more often.”

Baz nods, collecting my plate and his and placing them in the sink. “I agree. I forgot how good it was.”   
Once we’re done eating, Baz grabs a tray of scones, along with two bottles of beer, and we resume our place in the sitting room, me leaning against the sofa, Baz enveloped and cradled by my legs. My left arm is slung around his shoulders, one of my hands resting on his chest, the other turning the pages of the book.

“Where’d we leave off?” Baz asks.

“The bit about Lady Catherine.”

“Which bit?”

I struggle to remember the line. “Oh!  _ Lady Catherine was extremely indignant _ . That bit.”

“Right, right,” he says, clearing his throat. “‘ _ Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive--” _

“How could she?” I cut in.

Baz ignores me, and keeps reading. 

_ “...especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. _ ’”

I take a sip of my drink, setting it down with a thud. 

Baz shoots me a glare. “Simon.”

“Right. Keep going.”

“‘ _ But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself-- _

I let out a gasp.

“ _ Simon _ .”

“Shit. Sorry. But look--” I say, pointing towards the sliding glass door.

I hear Baz whisper “Aleister Crowley,” and we both jump to our feet to get a better look outside. 

The sun just starting to set, and the sight is fucking glorious. The city’s glowing in all sorts of pinks and oranges, the sun slowly dipping behind the clouds, disappearing into the horizon.

“Come on, Baz,” I say, grabbing his hand and the book.

“Simon, what are you--”

“Just come on.”

He lets me drag him outside, and for a moment we just stand there, hand-in-hand, looking out at the city and the sun. 

“We best finish this book before the sun goes away completely,” Baz suggests, and I nod in agreement. We both take a seat on the ground (we haven’t bought any chairs yet) and Baz continues reading.

“‘ _ And she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. _

“Oh wow,” I utter. 

“Quiet, Snow. I’ve only got a few more lines left.”

“Sorry, sorry.” 

“‘ _ With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.’ _ ”

“Is that the end?”

Baz nods, stretching. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Snow.” 

“I’ll have you know that I liked it,” I say. “I liked it a lot.”

“Really?” Baz says, and he can’t help the soft smile that spreads across his face.

“Really. I especially liked this bit: ‘ _ In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. _ ’”

“You’re a right sap, aren’t you?”

“Mhm, a bit. But only for you.”

Baz smiles at me, soft and gentle. “You can turn any day into a good one, Simon Snow.”

I grin, waggling my eyebrows at him. “I know what’ll make this day even better,” I say, bringing his hand to my mouth and planting a kiss on his palm.

Then, Baz looks at me like he always looks at me when he’s about to attack.

I know what that means, too.

And I’m ready for it.


	3. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to the art!

**Baz**

I don’t know what time it is or how long we’ve been sitting outside. The sun is gone by now, the moon in its place shining brightly in the sky alongside the stars.

We’ve been kissing for hours, with no signs of stopping. My mouth is numb and I’m still afraid I’ll Turn him, even after all these years, but it doesn’t matter because Simon Snow is _kissing_ _me_. It’s what I’ve wanted all my life, and it’s what I get to relish in every single day.

I pull away from Simon and we both sit in silence, trying to catch our breath. 

“Who knew the sun would eventually get tired of our PDA?” I tease, knocking into him with my shoulder. (He’s kissed me stupid, Snow has. I’ve lost all filter on the words coming out of my mouth.)

He shakes his head and laughs at me. “Well, Baz, I’ll have you know that the sun doesn’t stay out for just anyone. Only those who are worthy.”

“What,” I say, smirking at Simon and arching an eyebrow, ”are we not a worthy cause that needs the sun’s light?”

“So we can snog?” He chuckles, and the sound is glorious. “I don’t think so.” 

“Shall we take this inside then? If the sun isn’t going to provide us any light, we may as well, right?”

He licks his lips nervously, and nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Simon…Are we ready for this?”

He sighs and says, “Fuck Baz, I don’t know,” shaking his head and avoiding my eyes.

“Hey,” I say, gently placing a finger under his chin and tilting his head up so our eyes meet. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for or comfortable with.”

“I know, but…” His voice trails off. 

This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about doing this. About doing something so intimate and vulnerable.

We thought we were ready, a few months ago.

We had been kissing for hours, our mouths had practically been glued together all day. He reached for my shirt and I reached for his, and soon those were cast aside. Trousers followed that, each pulled down in one swift movement. And then, standing there in our pants, we realized what it was exactly we were about to do. We both panicked, and frantically dressed ourselves again. 

We haven’t tried since then. Too many things to worry about.

My vampirism and all the emotional exhaustion that comes with it. I’m fucking terrified that I’ll hurt him, afraid that I’ll Turn him. I wouldn’t ever try to hurt him. But the thought that he’d be injured as a result of my condition paralyzes me. 

His wings, and that bloody tail. I’ve tried on several occasions to see where those fit in, but I have yet to figure out the answer. I always spiral into a panic if I think about them for too long, so I try not to dwell on it. 

But also, Simon never seemed into it. The whole sex thing.

Whenever we talked about it, he always said he’d be willing to give it a go, but, he wasn’t ever enthusiastic about it. (Though, I really shouldn’t be one to speak. I’m  _ definitely _ not the most sex-driven person. Or, vampire, that is.)

But tonight, there’s a glint in Simon’s eyes that I’ve never seen before. He’s looking at me in a different way, with some sort of passion and hunger that I don’t recognize. 

“Do you want to do this?” I ask. With  _ me _ ?”

Simon’s silent for a moment before saying, “Yes.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I really fucking am,” he says, and soon he’s rambling and I can’t stop him.

“I’m sorry for never showing any interest in this before, but I wasn’t ever sure if I actually wanted it. But I do, and with you. Only with you. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now, and fuck Baz, I just want  _ you _ .”

I’m speechless, too shocked to form a proper sentence. “Really?” 

“Yes,” he says, smiling. His voice is quiet, but he’s confident and sure of the words he’s saying. “So, let’s do it. Let’s fucking do it.”

I press a kiss to his lips and he grins, grabbing my hands (and the book) and pulling me up from the pavement where we’ve been sitting. He pushes open the sliding glass door and we both slip inside, a bit tipsy as we stumble through the house, hand-in-hand, making our way towards the bedroom. 

Simon kicks the door shut behind us as I go and sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the book aside, and waiting for him. He makes his way over to me, still smiling, and straddles my lap, kneeling on the bed. I take Simon by the back of his neck, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him forward, our lips meeting and tongues colliding.

Simon stops kissing me, just long enough to unbutton my shirt and pull it off, then his lips find mine again and we’re back at it. He runs his thumb across my cheekbone, his fingers eventually finding their way to my hair and getting lost in it.

My hand snakes up his back, under his shirt, reaching for the collar. I find the top of it, and we stop kissing as I tug it over his head and toss it on the ground. 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Simon says, grinning at me. 

I roll my eyes at him and pull him flush against my chest. “Kiss me again, you numpty.”

“There was something better I wanted to do,” he smirks and stands, grabbing my hands and yanking me up from where I’m sat. He kisses me, nonetheless, as he reaches for my trousers. He finds the zipper and fumbles with it for a bit, before finally loosening it and pulling them down. 

“You’re right,” I say, reaching for the top of his jeans as well. “That was much better than any kiss.”

“Oh hush, Basil. You know my kisses are to die for.”

I undo the clasp on his trousers and he kicks them off. “One kiss, and you think you know everything.” 

“Two kisses,” he says, and he takes me by the back of my neck.  

 

**Simon**

We moved back to the bed some time ago.

Baz is laying overtop of me, leaving a trail of kisses along my jaw, down my neck, across my collarbone. He finds an area of skin, and showers the area in kisses, before stopping himself and pulling away.

“Sorry,” he says, breathing heavily. He’s about as flushed as Baz can get, which isn’t much. (I’m sure if he had fed before all this he’d be much redder.)

“No, don’t be. Is everything all right?” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s lying.

I’ve gotten good at this, calling his bluff. Figuring out if he’s telling the truth or not. It only took me a few years, but I’ve finally gotten it down to an art.

“No, it’s not,” I say. “You’re not going to tell me unless I bug you, you stubborn prick, so out with it. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…”

I nod and wait for him to continue. “It’s just…”

He lets out a breath. “I wanted to try something.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know if it’ll work because the last time we did this, you had your magic. But, I’ve been practising, and I think it’ll work.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before climbing off of me and sitting cross-legged on the bed. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing his wand, then faces me, holding out a hand.

I take it, lacing our fingers together. 

He spells the lights off before laying the tip of his wand on our joined hands and whispering, “ **Twinkle, twinkle little star!** ”

I let out a gasp, and he continues with the next line.

“ **How I wonder what you are.** ”

The room is slowly disappearing, navy and dark purple stars taking its place. We’re in space now, and I’m suddenly reminded of when we did this five years ago in our room at Watford. 

“Baz, this is incredible!” I say, and I can’t stop myself from grinning.

I see the relief on his face as he keeps rhyming. “ **Up above the world so high! Like a diamond in the sky!** ”

“What’ll happen if you do the whole song?” I ask.

Baz shrugs. “ **Twinkle, twinkle little star! How I wonder what you are!** ”

“You did this all yourself, didn’t you?” I say, gesturing to the galaxy that surrounds us.

“Mhm. The hand-holding was just for old times’ sake.”

I roll my eyes at him.

I would be mad, but right now I can’t. Not when he’s here in front of me, and we’re floating among the stars  _ he _ created. 

How could I be mad?

“How long will they stay for?” I ask. “The stars?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. 

“Let’s make the most of it then. Before they all go away.”

He nods in agreement, pushing me back so I’m laying on the bed.

He’s kissing the moles and freckles that are scattered all over my body, treating each of them like a target. He loves to do this, he does. And he absolutely adores the mole on my cheek. I think that one’s his favourite. 

He kisses that one, then goes lower and lower, finding one on my hip and planting a kiss there. He presses one to my lips.

“Ready?” he asks, and he reaches for my pants.

I nod.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

 

***

 

I don’t know what I expected to happen in my life, but it certainly wasn’t this.

I didn’t ever think that I would fall in love. I always thought I would die young, on the battlefield, at Baz’s hand. 

I was certain that either he would kill me or I would kill him, and the Mage did nothing but convince me that it was my fate to bloody destroy him. Make him pay for the things he had no control over.

Instead of fighting him, though, I’m kissing him. (That’s not to say we don’t still fight. We do. Though nowadays it’s over more domestic matters. Our lives certainly aren’t at as much of a risk as they were when we were in school.) 

It’s nothing that I could’ve ever guessed would happen. Me kissing Baz. 

But it’s everything I want and need.

 

**Baz**

I spent nearly all of my time at Watford imagining what it would be like to be with Simon Snow. What it would be like to hold his hand, to kiss him, to call him love and darling, to run my fingers through his golden curls.

All I could do for years at school was dream of him and pine after him, and all so fucking hopelessly. 

I never could have guessed that Simon and I would make it out of this mess alive.

I never thought that Simon and I would end up together.

I never could have imagined that I would be making love to Simon snow, surrounded by stars. 

It’s like the first time we held hands, when I thought that maybe, just maybe, we could be something more. 

What we’re doing right now is perfect.

_ He’s _ perfect.

And I’m in love with him. 

He’s just a boy in my arms.

He’s Simon Snow.

He’s the only boy I want in my arms.


End file.
